The Seafood Special

Saturday night in the pub, and the old man sat hunched over his plate like the weight of every wasted year had finally pinned him there.

he sneezed into the crook of his elbow, the same childhood tic that eighty-odd years couldn’t burn out of him. a long, glistening strand of snot stretched from his nose to his arm while he pawed blindly for the napkin. it was already ruined — greasy with the oily runoff from the seafood special, flecks of fried batter and cocktail sauce smeared across it like some abstract painting.

his nose was a fat, veined bulb glowing Merlot red, the flush spreading across his face and scalp, a map of broken capillaries and too many lost nights. cold hands, yellowed nicotine fingers trembling, he wiped fast and snorted the rest back down with a wet, throaty growl that made the few remaining patrons shift in their seats.

then the soliloquy came rolling out, a slobbering, eight-pint barrage of filth — “goddamn this rotten life… no cunt left to call, no cunt left to blame…” — words spilling wet and broken between belches and half-chewed curses. his hand swept across the dirty table, knocking over a half-empty glass, sending a river of cheap beer into the pools of red sauce and breadcrumbs. the carcass of the king prawn flew from his fingers, sailing across the mess and landing with a soft plop. its little black eyes stared blankly up at the faded retro wallpaper; long feelers curled around a stale husk of bread like it was trying to hold on to one last shred of dignity.

he slumped forward hard then, dead drunk, face planting into the plate. rich sauce splashed up in a red arc across his chin and shirt, dripping slow onto the already filthy table — grease stains, cigarette ash, and the wreckage of his meal all blending into one sad, sticky ruin.

the man was gone. just breathing and leaking and dreaming whatever drunks dream when the lights start to blur.

Call an ambulance,
you can never tell these days,
drivers all on strike.